A Song of Puff and Brian
by TheWolfofthePalatine
Summary: Two exiled dragonriders return to the Seven Kingdoms to undertake a secret mission that could change the course of Westeros' history...
1. Chapter 1 - Fire Made Flesh

**FOREWORD**

I just wanted to say a few quick words about this little story, since this is my first post on . The idea for this fanfiction sort of spawned out of a late-night conversation between me and a friend, fantasising over what it would be like to fly to Westeros on dragons and get involved in all the insanity of A Song of Ice and Fire. Instead of simply fantasising, I decided, what the heck, I'll go ahead and write it out. So...once we'd chosen names for our faithful dragon sidekicks (Puff and Brian, respectively), it was only a matter of deciding what it was we were setting out to Westeros to do.

I still have no idea what that is. This is all being written by ere, so, some things mightn't make sense, some things may come out of the blue, but...anyways, I hope you enjoy it for what it is!

* * *

_**A SONG OF PUFF AND BRIAN**_

**CHAPTER ONE**

'**FIRE MADE FLESH'**

(i)

'You can't transport a fully-grown dragon across the Narrow Sea, by _boat_.'

The Red Priest's eyes glinted dangerously across the table at me, features flickering in the withering candlelight. I swallowed my annoyance and coughed nervously, leaning forwards. I'd tried to ply the devil with drink to get him to acquiesce to my proposition; failing that, I thought, I could always pander to his ego. 'Holyman,' I said with a grin, 'you know as well as I do that dragons are fire made flesh. They are the most perfect icons of the grace of the Lord of Light. Living, breathing, _fire_. Surely it is God's will that you help transport His servants across the water to Westeros.'

The Priest drained his tankard of ale and smirked a bemused smirk, clearly unconvinced. 'You bear the name of a Westerosi house,' he retorted, 'but you were not born there, were you?'

'And what makes you say that?'

The Red Priest leaned forwards, eyes like spears cutting through me. 'Because every child in Westeros knows that _dragons can fly_. You need to cross the Narrow Sea; cross it. Fly over there, as the Targaryens did before the Doom swallowed Old Valyria.'

I grimaced. I'd been expecting as much. Automatically, I turned my head to search the tavern, eyes falling on Georgia, sat in a booth by the door, smug look on her face as she tucked into a portion of bread and ale. On the table before her was a collection of gold coins, stacked high for all the patrons to see. She'd won it over the past three days challenging hapless Braavosis to single combat. The ever-eager swashbucklers of the Free City had swaggered up to her in droves, confident in the assertion that the fabled Water Dancers of Braavos could smash the ambitions and tall talk of one little girl. After the fifth or sixth, I'd stopped trying to warn them; they didn't stop accepting the challenges. She'd amassed a small fortune in just three days. I turned back to the Red Priest, brushing a lock of hair out of my face. 'My partner,' I began slowly, picking my words carefully, 'has a...ahh..._flare_ for the dramatic. She would agree with your assertion that the only way to cross the water is to fly on our dragons, just so she'd have an excuse to.' The Red Priest sat back in his seat, arms folded smugly. I continued, 'but I'm sure you can appreciate why to do so wouldn't necessarily be in the best interests of the secrecy of our mission. King Robert Baratheon sits the Iron Throne; the dragon is the sigil of the house he overthrew to sit there. We would do well not to draw attention to the fact that we happen to own a couple; hence, Priest, the boat.'

The Priest took another long draught of beer, eyes not leaving me. He replaced the emptied mug on the table and took a moment before speaking. 'Even if I wanted to help you,' he said, 'my ship leaves port in a day's time, to sail east, to the Gulf of Grief and the Slaver Cities. I won't make port in Westeros for...oh, a month or so?'

I felt the bile rise in my stomach. What in Seven Hells had he been leading me on this whole time for, so? My hand slipped to the hilt of my sword, sheathed on my hip, and I rose slowly from my seat. As I did so, the light of the candle seemed to grow brilliant and fill the booth we'd been sitting in, exaggerating the jagged features of the Priest until his face looked like that of some demon. I watched, eyes wide, as shadowy figures danced in the flames. The Priest's eyes seemed to glow red as he stared through the fire at me, and when he spoke, his voice was a low, monotonous growl, nothing like the slurred high-pitched mewl it had been. 'You dare not threaten the Lord of Light, exile,' the voice bellowed, though as I glanced around it appeared I was the only one who bore witness to this phenomenon, 'He knows your heart better than you do. Bear arms against His servant, and you shall not know forgiveness in this life, or the dark to come.'

My grip tightened around the pommel of my sword, but, something stopped me from drawing and striking down the drunken bastard who sat before me, entertaining children with his parlour tricks. I released my grip on the sword and spat at the priest's feet. 'Spare me your sorcery,' I muttered, 'Your God gave you alcoholism and a lazy eye; mine gave me two dragons, a sword, and something better to do with my time than minister to superstitious old ladies.'

The light seemed to die down, and the Red Priest's eyes returned to normal. He staggered a little where he sat, but otherwise remained motionless and silent. Rolling my eyes, I spun away from him and made across the tavern, stopping only to ask Georgia if she was ready to go.

'Not just yet,' she replied, motioning over to the bar, where a burly bald man sat, glowering over at her, 'that mercenary has promised me a fight as soon as he finishes his drink. We've put ten gold dragons on it; I'm set to make a killing. Pun intended.'

I looked the soldier up and down. He bore the tattoos of a slave from Volantis, but his armour was well-crafted; antique, and badly fitting, indicating it was likely stolen, but well-crafted. He was a runaway, and judging from his size it hadn't been guile or intrigue that had helped him do it. I rolled my eyes to the heavens. 'Well just try not to die,' I offered, 'the flight tomorrow might actually be enjoyable without you there to tease me. I wouldn't know what to do.'

'Flight?' Georgia's eyes suddenly grew wide. 'So, we're flying after all?'

'Yes, the priest didn't come through for me. There's no boat large in all of Braavos to take us and our dragons to Dorne, it would seem.'

'Brilliant!' She drained her mug. 'This whole trip just seems worth it now. So long as you don't fall off and beg me to rescue you again.'

I felt my face redden. 'It was ONE time, and we were pretty high up, I mean...'

'Yeah, yeah,' she swatted away my excuses, 'sorry Matt, buster here looks just about ready to pay up.' I turned my head; sure enough, the escaped slave was stood up now, sizing her up and grinning wickedly. 'I'll see you tomorrow morning with my winnings.'

'Fine,' I said, heading towards the door, 'just don't kill him. It's a serious crime to kill a slave over here.'

'No promises.'

(ii)

Georgia woke me an hour before dawn; kicking a pail of water over me. Or, curled up in an empty stall in the inn's stables, I _hoped_ against hope that it was a pail of water. I sprung up, soaked through, hair a sopping mess down one side of my face, and demanded to know what in the Seven Hells she thought she was doing. I was answered with a saddle. Thrown unceremoniously at my face and knocking me back down again.

Fuming, mumbling obscenities and curses invoking all the gods of men, I picked myself back up and collected my saddle, marching out of the stables to where she already had both our horses up and just about ready to go. I threw the saddle over my horse's back without saying a word, tightening the girth around its belly, shaking with anger.

'It's a long ride to the hills,' Georgia exclaimed, 'I thought it best if we set off early, before daylight.'

'I haven't even had breakfast yet,' I complained, and instantly bit my tongue at how childish I sounded. She responded by producing a ripe green apple from her saddlebag, and tossing it my way before feeding another to her own horse. I took it without saying a word, taking a bite of juicy deliciousness while trying as best I could not to show my gratitude. As soon as I'd finished I lifted myself up onto my horse and gave it a gentle kick, and we lurched forwards slowly, then rose into a steady canter as we cleared the gates of Braavos and moved off-road, heading southeast into the first bright red rays of the sun, towards the hills that scarred the eastern Braavosi Coastlands.

A half hour passed in silence between us, nothing but the song of the first birds and the sound of our horses' hooves breaking the morning still around us. With the hills of Braavos starting to tower before us, I found my voice again. As we slowed to a trot nearing our destination, I glanced over at her, rays of sunlight falling around her like some mocking halo. 'I wish that slave _had_ killed you,' I said stubbornly. Georgia didn't seem to react.

'And then he'd have taken my winnings and I wouldn't have had been able to buy you breakfast this morning,' she sang back at me. '_And_ I'd have come back to haunt you during your entire trip to Westeros. You'd never get a moment's peace.'

'I don't get a moment's peace now!' I snapped back at her, to which she just threw her head back and laughed. A sickening thought occurred to me at that point; we hadn't even reached Westeros yet. By the Seven, we hadn't even started our flight across the Narrow Sea yet, and I was already soaked through to the bone. I ground my teeth in renewed silence as we came into the valley we had set down in just over four days prior.

The valley's great walls rose up on either side of us as we rode slowly down the path hewn between the mountains some centuries previously. They jagged upwards, piercing the sky like great black battlements built for giants. Under the crushing magnitude of the mountains, the horses were uneasy, and whinnied nervously and occasionally misplaced a step. I shushed mine cooingly, patting his chestnut neck softly as we continued on. It wasn't long now; but the horses would smell the smoke before we did. After that there was nothing to it but to proceed on foot – they wouldn't dare continue after they smelled the smoke. Even Georgia's light-hearted humour had hardened beneath the shade of the valley, where even the sound of the birds or the wind was blotted out by the smothering mountains on either side. The deathly silence was strangely harrowing; as if even nature itself knew what lay at the other side of this valley.

To my surprise, I smelled it a moment before the horses did – and judging from the way Georgia quickly and expertly whoa'd her horse, she did too. Mine took another few faltering steps forward, then thrashed its head up and down, neighing in sudden panic and rearing wildly. By some miracle I managed to hang on, heart in my mouth, and turn him around to walk back a little the way we came, towards where Georgia had already dismounted and tied her horse's reins to a stake she'd set into the ground. I followed suit, coughing a little against the smell. I'd never quite gotten used to that smell; the smell of ash and smoke and charred meat. The smell of fire made flesh.

We stripped our horses of their saddlebags and our packs, then pressed on, on foot, into the heart of the valley. The air around us began to grow thick with smoke, and before long we were sweating profusely as the heat around us grew.

'Whose idea was it to keep them in a _valley_?' I gasped through deep, gulping breaths, desperate to reach the quarry at the end of this road.

'That would have been you,' Georgia spluttered back, hair and clothes now sticking to her as they had me an hour or so ago, thanks to her rude awakening.

'Yeah, well, we needed to keep them hidden,' I said defensively, 'it was a good idea at the time.'

'At the _time_.'

Just as I thought we could go no further, that our lungs were going to give out and our legs buckle beneath us, I heard the sound of wet footsteps smacking against the cracked rock. I gazed ahead through the smoke to see a little figure running towards us, naked save for a mop of greasy black hair on his head, brown eyes wide with excitement.

'You're back! You're back!' he chimed in excitedly in the guttural growl of Dothraki. I smiled fondly as he ran up to me, ruffling his hair, before he went and hugged Georgia.

'What did you do with your clothes?' she asked him with a grin in his own language, to which he replied it had gotten too hot to wear clothes. I nodded my head in understanding; we'd left the child four days in this sweltering quarry. It was a miracle he'd lasted.

'Thank you, Corvo,' I said to him as Georgia handed him a fresh apple from her saddlebag. 'Did anybody come by while we were gone?'

'Nobody, blood-of-my-blood,' there was no Dothraki word for _ser_, I realised. The term sounded strange to my ears, even in the boy's native tongue.

I smiled at him, then walked a few feet forwards, to a scar in the quarry where an ancient mine had dug deep, deep and straight, creating a massive pit that ate into the earth like some gaping wound. I held my breath, and peered down it.

Two sets of yellow eyes gazed menacingly back at me through the smoke and gloom.


	2. Chapter 2 - Into The West

**CHAPTER TWO**

'**INTO THE WEST'**

(i)

We spotted our prey after an hour's flight time.

The sun was by now high in the sky, scorching hot without clouds to bridle it. It beat down remorselessly over the crashing waves of the Narrow Sea beneath us, the blinding white hot glare from the water cooking the air around us. The dragons thrived; riding the thermals from the rising hot air, bathing in the sunlight as they glided lazily over the open ocean, the heat radiating from their scales, mine's black, Georgia's albino white. Things were not as easy for Georgia and myself; I'd stripped to the waist, tying my shirt over my head to protect my scalp from the sun. Every half hour or so, Georgia would dip low and skim the surface of the water, her dragon splashing a gallon of seawater over her. Now, though, she was far overhead, while I flew low, eyes scanning the perfectly blue water beneath us.

The pod of humpback whales had been breaching along their westwards trajectory for fifteen minutes, moving further and further into deep sea to escape the coastline where they usually made their nurseries in this time of the year. As I'd flown low to observe them closer, I'd seen why.

A drunken Westerosi maester in a tavern in Volantis had told me tales of the White Death. His stories were incomplete and fantastical; for a while I'd thought the sightings were as trustworthy as fishermen seeing mermaids, or children speaking about monsters and grumpkins. 'Or those who claim to have seen a living dragon,' the old man offered with a chuckle. I smiled awkwardly and buried my head in the plate of fresh meat laid out in front of me, lest he see my ears turn red. 'In the Citadel they have another name for them,' he continued, seeming not to notice my sudden bout of sheepishness, 'they call them the Great White Shark.' I'd ruminated over it as I chewed a tough piece of grizzle. _Shark_. I liked that name. There was something primal, something frightening about it. _Shark_.

My dragon's right wing skimmed the surface of the water, sending white spray shimmering through the air behind it like a shower of sparks. I pulled up, looking to get a better view of the pod of whales beneath us. They'd split up now; the young pressing north in a panic, the adults unable to reach them. I couldn't yet see what was splitting them apart, but I had a solid hunch. I'd seen it ten minutes previously; a white shadow gliding hauntingly through the waters after the small family of whales. Now, as the juvenile humpbacks split a good three or four yards from the rest of the pod, I saw it again. A foot-long ivory dorsal fin slicing through the water after the spray of the juveniles' blowholes. I patted my dragon's neck, and gestured with a finger down. Two yellow, reptilian eyes followed, and locked on to the White Death – the _shark_ – just an inch or so beneath the surface of the water. Excitedly, the dragon beat his wings quicker, picking up his pace, as a low growl emanated from deep within him. I smiled, glancing around the skies above. Georgia was still far above us, her dragon's massive wingspan occasionally blotting out the sun. The few moments she found herself downwind of us, I caught snippets of notes, carried through the air by the cooling breeze. Georgia always sung when we flew; songs of battle, songs of heroes, songs of love, songs of woe, songs of ice and fire. I'd never asked her why she sung. It dawned on me then that it had simply never occurred to me to ask.

Tearing my thoughts from Georgia, I patted my dragon's neck again, and he took the hint. With a sudden heart-wrenching dive, he folded back his wings and shot down towards the sea. As the waters rushed up to great us, his great jaws distended, row upon row of razor sharp teeth glinting viciously in the sunlight. His wings spread again, slowing our descent, just in time for him to dip his head into the ocean and snatch the White Death from the sea, with a flick of his head throwing the massive shark high into the sky.

Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The shark exploded upwards, mouth a frightening grimace of confusion, _hundreds_ of serrated teeth gnashed together in a menacing snarl. It twisted and writhed in the air as it was thrown, droplets of water falling from its shining white body. Beneath where I sat, I felt the dragon's chest expand as its lungs filled up with air, and then...I shielded my eyes as the sky was scorched with fire, burning the shark through to the marrow, setting the very air around it on fire. The heat was unbearable. I felt my dragon's neck surge forward and, with a single bite, its teeth ripped the giant shark in two, swallowing one half whole. We circled the spot where the other half fell, and then the dragon dove again, scooping the scorched meat up into its mouth before it could sink below the waves. Having fed, we climbed again, higher and higher into the sky, to rejoin Georgia above.

We hadn't dallied about in the Braavosi quarry that morning. Georgia dug a pit for a fire in some soft earth by the base of one of the mountains and we had a proper breakfast under the shade of the valley, sharing with Corvo, who stood away from the pit, seemingly terrified of the dragons we'd left in his charge. After eating, I took Corvo back along the path towards where we'd left the horses and gathered the rest of our belongings, before kneeling down to his eye level.

'These are good horses,' I said to him, 'they've served us well for the last three years. They will not let you down.' The boy's eyes grew wide, and he started to shake his head, as if to deny the gift. I hushed him. 'You've been good these few months,' I told him, 'looking after our dragons, not telling anybody that you had seen them. You deserve a lot more than two horses.'

'These are gifts fit for a _khal_, blood-of-my-blood,' he said, brown eyes wide as he patted the muzzle of Georgia's destrier. 'I will take them east, into the Dothraki Sea, and there I will find a _khalasar_ of my own. I will do these horses great honour. I promise you, Matt the Andal.'

'And one day you may be a _khal_ yourself, Corvo, son of Corgo,' I said with a grin.

Corvo smiled proudly at that, chest all puffed out, then a curious look overcame him. 'I heard stories about the great Andal, Aegon the Conqueror.' I rose an inquisitive eyebrow. It was unlike a young boy from the Dothraki Sea to know of the legends of Westeros. Ignoring me, the child continued – 'They say he and his sisters rode three dragons into battle,' his eyes went wide as he retold the story, 'Meraxes, Vhagar, and Aegon's own dragon, Balerion the Black Dread.'

'Yes,' I nodded, 'that's right.'

'Those dragons had names,' Corvo noted, 'don't yours have names too?'

I nodded my head, grinning from ear to ear. 'They do. They are called Puff and Brian.' I waited patiently for his reaction.

'Puff and..._Puff and Brian_?' Corvo shook his head, 'those aren't names for dragons!'

'When the Targaryens flew to Dragonstone from Old Valyria, they had named their dragons after the gods of the Valyrian Freehold,' I explained. 'When Georgia and I named our dragons, we named them after pets we had had as children. In this case; cats.'

'Puff and Brian...' Corvo turned the names in his heard slowly, chewing it over. 'If I ever find a dragon, I will name him after the great _khals_ of the past, the great Dothraki heroes and bloodriders of legend. I will not name him after a cat.'

I smiled fondly at him, and ruffled his hair. He grinned, and unhooked the horses' reins from the stake Georgia had sat into the ground. We said our final goodbyes, then I began to walk back towards the pit, which Georgia was now standing over. She looked over at me as I approached, and I nodded my head. Returning my nod, she put two fingers into her mouth and gave a loud whistle. On cue, there came a roar from the pit which shook the stones from the walls around us. I took a deep breath, a half-second before a giant white shape exploded out of the ground in front of us, momentarily darkening the sky with its majestic thirty-foot wingspan.

Puff's scales shimmered blindingly white in the morning sun as he slowly came to rest in front of Georgia, who stroked his muzzle fondly, entirely unafraid. His teeth glinted fiercely, yellow eyes glaring out at the world around him, though he dipped his head affectionately for Georgia as she approached. Following her example, I walked to the edge of the pit and whistled.

A second later, Brian leaped into the air, great black scales passing only a metre in front of my face. He climbed and climbed, out of the valley, circling around once, twice, and a third time, before turning and dropping out of the sky, landing with an earthrending crash a few feet away from where I was stood. I patted his muzzle, and he growled, revealing rows of snow white teeth as long as a human child, and then some. I tossed him a leftover scrap of meat from breakfast – nowhere near enough to satiate a fully-grown dragon, I knew – and then rounded up the last of my belongings.

Before climbing onto Brian's back, I took a last, lingering look around the walls of the quarry. This would be the last time I saw Essos, I realised suddenly, a pang of sorrow and longing tugging at my heart, the last time I'd see home. We were leaving, returning to the land of our forefathers, and for once I didn't know what would happen when we got there.

'Come on, princess, we're burning daylight!' Georgia had already hopped up onto Puff's back and, judging from how he was already beating his wings, sending great whirlwinds of dust into my face and causing me to choke and splutter, she was feeling none of the emotions I was. I growled at her under my breath, then lifted myself up onto Brian's back.

I leaned forwards, steadying myself before we left the safety and relative comfort of the ground, then closed my eyes. '_Soves_,' I whispered, one of only a handful of High Valyrian words I knew, and by the time I'd opened them again Essos was but an indistinguishable brown canvass far, far below. We had left home behind.

(ii)

'Land, ho!'

Georgia snapped me out of my reverie, swooping down in front of me before diving towards the sea. I strained my eyes against the glare of the sun; sure enough, on the western horizon, no more than a grey line emerging from the Narrow Sea, there was land.

Westeros.

I followed her down, Brian tucking his wings against his back to speed his descent, catching up with Puff and snapping at his white tail playfully. Puff roared his defiance, and dodged to the right, Brian moving quickly to cut off his escape, snapping again at Puff's tail. Georgia fired back some abuse at me, but I couldn't hear her over the sound of the wind roaring in my ears. The two dragons continued like this for some time, weaving and dodging, rolling and snapping at one another mid air, every second bringing us closer to our ancestral home.

I didn't know how to feel. I'd been born and raised in Essos, travelling from town to town with my family, depending on where Father's work had taken him. As a sellsword with the Golden Company, he had travelled all over, and us with him – the Free Cities on the west coast, where I had lived much of my life, deep into the Dothraki Sea and the lands of the Lhazereen shepherds. As I crossed into adolescence, and Georgia with me (for both our fathers were signed to the Golden Company; as a result, we had grown up together), the Company accepted a contract in Slaver's Bay, farther east than I'd ever seen before – past the Smoking Sea and the Doom of Valyria, where the sky was charred red with ash and demons walked the streets of the sunken Freehold, to the city-states that had once comprised the mighty Ghiscari Empire. It had been in battle at Slaver's Bay, coming ashore for an assault upon the city of Meereen, that he had fallen when an arrow pierced his gut. As I flew, the sun heating my back, I remembered our last conversation that day.

Mother had pushed me inside the tent, not saying a word. The air was thick; sickly with sweet incense and spices that the Easterners flung around the room of a dying man, as if it the polite smells would cure him of all ailments. I blanched when I laid eyes on the man in that bed; he didn't look like Father. His skin was deathly white, the colour of cows' milk, his eyes wide and dark around the rims, glaring out madly at the world. He was stripped to the waist with a great bandage strapped around his midsection, sullied by dark red blood. I shivered, and it was at that moment I knew what it was like to know somebody was going to die. No manner of eastern crafts could bring Father back now.

He caught the expression on my face, and frowned at me. 'Shed not a tear, boy,' he said in his stern soldier's voice, 'I do not fear death. I will not have my family weep on my behalf.' I nodded slowly, not moved by his words but accepting them nonetheless. He talked to me for a while after that – sometimes making sense, sometimes succumbing to fever and blabbering incoherently for minutes at a time. He talked about my sister, who we had lost when I was still a child – she was older than me, beautiful, with locks of red hair that bounced when she laughed. The Pale Mare had carried her off one night at camp, during a particularly gruelling campaign for the Company. I hadn't forgotten her, but Father still felt the need to remind me. Finally, his eyes glazed slightly, and he slumped back into his bed.

'Do you remember our words? Our House words?'

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. 'Always Faithful,' I repeated diligently.

A weak smile fluttered across Father's face, only for a second. 'Leave us. All of you.'

Diligently, the mob of physicians and soldiers in the little tent filed out, even Mother left my side, until only myself, Father and Bobert the Eunuch, stood by Father's bed, remained. Father forced himself up onto his elbows, and called for Milk of the Poppy. Bobert ladled out a generous spoonful to Father's lips, and he drank down the milky white substance hungrily. He fell silent for a few minutes, minutes which passed like aeons, but then he stood up, and though his eyes were glazed, he spoke clearly again. 'I would have you swear me an oath,' he said, and for some reason the words chilled me to the bone.

'What oath, Father?' I heard myself saying, without bidding the words to come.

'My father...and my father's father...for as long back as I can remember...men of our House have always served faithfully with the Golden Company. Do you know why?'

'We were exiled,' I answered automatically, having heard this story countless times in my childhood. 'Cast out from the Seven Kingdoms by King Daeron II and his brother, Bloodraven.'

Father and Bobert shared a look, and then Father nodded his head. 'Bring it to me,' he whispered, and Bobert bowed and left the tent. When Bobert had gone, Father faced me again. 'I would have you swear me an oath,' he repeated, 'and leave camp tonight, forsaking this Company once and for all. You will not walk in my path; that is not your destiny. Yours lies across the Narrow Sea.'

The words felt like the slam of a bowstring against an unprotected wrist. I swallowed hard. Before I could respond, Bobert had returned, cradling something in his arms, draped in black velvet. I looked first to him, then to Father inquisitively. Father muttered his thanks, and Bobert handed him the object. 'Come closer,' Father instructed me, holding it out in his arms. I did so, heart pounding in my chest, short of breath, feeling as if I were in a dream. I had come to this tent to watch my Father die; now I did not know what was happening.

As I drew closer, Father whipped the velvet off the object it was concealing, and I recoiled in horror. A golden skull lay in his hands – _the_ golden skull, I knew, of Bittersteel; the founder of the Golden Company. The Company carried his skull into battle ever since the days of his death. I had only seen it previously from afar; never this close. It unnerved me no end.

'Place your right hand upon it,' my Father said, and I hesitated a moment before doing so, swallowing hard against the sickening feeling in my stomach. 'Now repeat these words – Ancestors, hear now my oath,' as Father spoke, I repeated his words, 'and bear witness to my vow. I, Matt, of House Elisen, hereby pledge to return to the land of my forebears across the Narrow Sea, and not to rest until I have taken from King Aerys II that which belongs to my House by right, with Fire and Blood. I will leave camp tonight, forsaking all bonds of family and friendship, and travel west, past the Gulf of Grief and the Doom, to the Free City of Pentos, and there I will make my way to my destiny.'

I choked a little as I repeated Father's words. _Forsaking all bonds of family and friendship_. Did that mean Mother? And Georgia? She'd been my closest friend through all these years; through all the forced marches, all the battles where we'd sit by and watch the soldiers manoeuvre and grapple until one line broke, and the fleeing side was run down and decimated by the other's cavalry. We'd studied the art of war together, one day knowing we would follow in our fathers' footsteps to serve in the Golden Company. Now I was to abandon her? I swallowed hard, but finished the oath nonetheless. 'By all the Seven, I swear this,' I added as I finished. Mother always blessed me with the names of the Seven, and so it felt right to do the same to my oath.

Father sank back into his bed, and I removed my hand from the skull as Bobert took it back, throwing the black velvet over it and once again leaving the tent. Father cackled to himself, and my heart froze in my chest as I recognised the sound as his death rattle. 'There is only one god, boy,' he wheezed, eyes falling shut as the milk of the poppy took over, 'and His name is Death.'

I blinked, and the vision melted away before my eyes, to be replaced by the glare of the sunlight off the Narrow Sea, and the hills of Westeros rising quickly on the horizon. I glanced over at Georgia, whose eyes were wide with the excitement of at last seeing the Seven Kingdoms. I'd never really forgiven myself for abandoning her that night my father had died. Three years later she had found me again, at the Temple of the Many-Faced God in Braavos. By then she had been given her own mission, her own destiny to pursue across the Narrow Sea; and eggs. I swallowed hard, feeling the heat of Brian beneath my legs. And two dragons' eggs, with instructions to take them east, into the lands of the Lhazereen, where we would find the means to awaken them from their eternal slumber. All our adventures together after we had reunited that fateful day in Braavos paled in comparison, I thought with a sobering grimace, to what we had set out to do now.

'We'll skirt over Crackclaw Point,' Georgia's voice once again snapped me back to the task at hand, 'and set down in the forest there, where we can hope to hide the dragons. The town of Maidenpool should be but a day's walk along the coast from there.'

I nodded quietly to myself. Georgia had been studying maps of Westeros for weeks prior to our journey; she knew the borders of the Seven Kingdoms, the Great Houses of each and the lords paramount who held sway over these lands. I knew that fourteen years ago, King Aerys the Mad had been overthrown by King Robert I, who still ruled in the capital. Aside from that, I knew little about the politics of the Kingdoms; that was Georgia's arena. I had spent three years immersed in the intrigues of the Free Cities; I felt more comfortable there amidst the slavers, pederasts and insane priests of Essos. The Seven Kingdoms represented an entirely new challenge.

(iii)

The first thing I noticed about Westeros was the _grass_. As we descended over Crackclaw Point, I was taken in by a myriad of greens I had never seen before in my life. Forest tops, undergrowth, rolling fields – Essos had nothing to compare. The soil of Westeros was more fertile than any I had ever seen before in the East. The Dothraki could graze a herd of horses large enough to swallow the world twice over, if they could but cross the Narrow Sea. I swallowed hard. Maybe it was a mercy that they did not trust the black water, I thought to myself.

We touched the ground in the middle of the forest, an area covered by dense overgrowth and shrubbery. By some miracle, I prayed, perhaps the dragons could stay incognito; if any unfortunate forester was unlucky enough to stumble into them, well...I'd say a prayer for them down the line.

As soon as Puff touched down, Georgia hopped off his back and started fiddling with the straps of her saddlebag, eager to get it off and get going. I took my time; when Brian touched down, I patted his neck slowly, biding my time before putting my feet on Westerosi ground. The first Elisen to do so in nigh on a century. With a deep breath, I hopped off Brian's back – and planted my feet firmly in the ground. I didn't feel any different. I stared at my hands inquisitively, not sure what I had been expecting. I didn't feel any different at all. With a sigh, I turned towards Brian, to fetch my saddlebag...

...to find Georgia standing in my way, an eyebrow raised. 'Are you about finished?' she asked, to which I replied that I had no idea what she was talking about. She rolled her eyes as I pushed past her to get to my stuff. 'Hurry up, or I'll leave you here and set off by myself. We're not going to make any progress if you're stopping to make sure you still have hands every time we see a new sight.' She paused, and I could sense her eyes on the back of my head, sizing me up for a barb. 'I know your hands are important to you, but I'm sure there're whores here in Westeros too who could help you out even if they _did_ drop off.'

I spun around, about to fire back a retort, but she'd already skipped on through the undergrowth, leaving me fuming by Brian. I muttered obscenities under my breath, gathering up my saddlebag and sword, then chased after her.

The forest thinned after about fifteen minutes of walking. I'd replaced my shirt by now, strapping my sword back onto my waist and my saddlebag around my shoulders, and was walking beside Georgia down a roughly hewn path that seemed to lead in the direction we were trying to go. I was still fuming from her earlier tongue lashing, and didn't say a word to her as we walked, despite her commenting on how pretty the forest was in this light, and how interesting it would be to finally see Westerosi culture first hand. She offered me some smoked meat from her saddlebag, but I shook my head stubbornly. She just shrugged and started munching to herself, as I looked on, mouth watering. My stomach grumbled, and she looked over at me, smirking without saying a word. I puffed out my cheeks and walked ahead of her, staring down at my shoes and kicking at the path in front of me.

As we emerged from the forest, Georgia disappeared to make water, and I spotted over the next small hill a little hut with thatched roof, complete with what looked to be a miniature orchard out the back. By this point, I was starving, and Georgia hadn't offered me any more food after my initial stubborn rejection of her. Licking my lips hungrily I started on without her towards the hut.

It was a dilapidated little farm; one wall of the house was caved in and the room abandoned. A child's wooden horse lay up against one crumbling wall, some sort of fungus growing up the wooden staff as if it had not been touched in years. I initially thought that the hut was abandoned, but as I hopped over the wall and headed into the orchard, I sighted a tacked palfrey tied to a post in the yard. I instinctively crouched down on my haunches and gazed around for signs of inhabitants, but, I saw nobody. Contented, I stood up again and reached for one of the ripe red apples off the tree. I took a bite, showering myself in its juices, closing my eyes in ecstasy – I had been more hungry than I gave myself credit for. I gobbled down three of them, then popped another four or five into my saddlebag. And I won't be sharing_ any_ with Georgia, I thought to myself gleefully.

'Easy there, Lannister,' a gravelly voice from behind froze me in my tracks, 'you're a long way from home. I suggest you step away and begone before you get yourself into trouble.'

I turned around slowly, quickly stuffing the last of the apples into my bad and closing over the hide flap. I found myself face to face with a grizzled, skeletal man with only tufts of white hair patching an otherwise bald head. He wore a black shirt, on the breast of which was sewn a faded sigil which I could no longer make out. His fingers tapped slowly on the pommel of a short sword dangling from his hip, the kind I recognised likely to be handed out to peasant levies at muster. It wasn't the sword of a wealthy knight.

'These apples aren't just for anyone, you know,' the aged man said, 'especially not lions away from home. I suggest you drop your bag and leave, now, before you get yourself into trouble.'

I gulped, my left hand twitching, close to the hilt of my own sword. The man's eyes flashed down to my scabbard, and he grinned. 'I wouldn't be doing that, Lannister,' he sang, 'attacking a man in his own farm, trying to make off with a portion of apples...they'll string you up like a nameday hog, good 'n' proper.' His right hand moved to his sword, and he slowly pulled it out of its scabbard an inch or two. 'Now, I suggest you heed my warning, drop your bag, and begone with you.'

I stood still for a moment, not sure what to do. He was right; if he was indeed the farmer who owned this land, I was hardly within my rights to take his produce, much less bear steel against him. Slowly, I dropped my saddlebag to the floor, then crouched over it, opening the flap and reaching a hand in to retrieve the apples...

'At ease there, mister,' Georgia suddenly appeared next to me, flicking a golden coin tantalisingly in her right hand. The farmer's eyes grew wide. 'Forgive my rather inept and mute partner,' she cooed, tossing the farmer the gold coin. He caught it, still half in-shock, and stared at it. He bit it, that way peasants do when they see a gold coin for the first time, and could barely suppress a childish smile. 'This should more than cover the portion of apples my partner was intent on purchasing,' she said, to which the farmer nodded his head frantically.

'Why, yes, yes of course ma'am, most certainly, I do apologise for any inconvenience,' he looked first to the coin, and then over at Georgia, and furrowed his brow and frowned when he saw her. 'You bear a strange accent to be cohorting around with this lion,' he mused, 'from across the Narrow Sea, then, I take it?'

Georgia nodded her head slowly as I stood up and replaced my saddlebag over my shoulders.

'I see, I see...' the man stared back at the gold coin in his hand, then pocketed it, patting the pocket he had placed it. 'Very good, so,' he smiled a toothless grin, 'welcome to Westeros!'

'Wait,' Georgia held up a hand, 'before we move on, we would appreciate it if you could tell us the way to King's Landing from here. We have business there.'

The man's eyes grew wide for a moment, but then he collected himself. 'From here, you'd be wanting to travel south,' he exclaimed with a proud nod of his head, 'after a journey of...oh, say, two days on foot...you should reach the King's Road. Follow it east, and you should find yourselves at King's Landing by the afternoon of your third day.'

'Thank you,' Georgia bowed her head respectfully, and I did the same, still bewildered at the course of events that had just transpired. The farmer hopped back up onto his palfrey and waved at us before galloping off down the rolling hills.

Georgia shot me a look, rolled her eyes, and then set off south. I followed on her heels. 'You know I expect at least half of those apples you stole, for getting you out of that.'

'Wait now,' I protested, 'I got those apples for m—'

'...And if I hadn't intervened when I did, he'd have robbed you of your saddlebag,' she quipped. 'You owe me a gold dragon.'

I clenched my jaw in annoyance. How did Georgia always manage to be right about everything? Even when we were kids, watching the Company's battles unfold in front of our eyes, she always knew which of the enemy's flanks were going to break and rout first, and what composition of units the Company would employ against whatever enemy. When our fathers had faced off against one of the mighty Khalasars of the Dothraki Sea, I had told her in no uncertain terms that they would likely deploy their cavalry to counter the Dothraki; infantry would stand no chance against horseback Dothraki screamers. At this, Georgia had hit me over the head, called me an idiot, and told me that the Golden Company would instead employ ranks of pikemen in the front line, with archers behind, to whittle down the enemy numbers and then break them against the wall of spears. Sure enough, half an hour later, she was proven right – the Dothraki wasted themselves against the Company's spear wall formation, and the battle was a resounding victory for our fathers. She was always right, about everything, including stupid old Westerosi farmers. Without saying a word, I handed over to her three of my apples, and she took them with a smug smile over her face.

We made camp that night in the hollowed out shell of an old sept, abandoned, it would seem, years ago. The roof had collapsed in on itself in one corner, and grass had cracked the tiles of the floor and grown through. Where a statue of the Crone had been, now there grew a sapling oak tree. As Georgia dug a pit for a fire, I said a prayer to the Stranger, the only statue that had remained immune to the elements. I don't know what I was praying for; one usually did not petition the Stranger for luck or success. These were things better left to the other gods. But the hooded stranger reminded me of the Many-Faced God of Braavos, and so I took comfort in his presence , even in this strange land. When the Andals had invaded and took Westeros from the First Men, they had brought with them their Seven Gods from Essos – it suited, I figured, that the God of Death had crossed the Narrow Sea with them.

When I had finished, I rejoined Georgia, her face illuminated by the light of her fire, and we finished off the apples and smoked meat, then lay down on the hard floor, staring at the stars through the collapsed roof.

'Do you think the king will see us?' Georgia asked in a quiet voice.

'I don't know,' I replied honestly, 'it is every subject's right to petition their king, or so my father told me. But our houses have not been subject to the Iron Throne for nearly a hundred years. We may get lucky, or, we may not. We will have to wait and see.'

Georgia remained silent after that. I could sense that, at last, the weight of destiny was starting to fall on her, and she had awakened to the magnitude of where we were, and what we still had to do. After a while, I heard her breathing get heavy, and I realised she had fallen asleep. I turned away from her, and shut my eyes, dreaming of three headed dragons.

(iv)

The next morning we had a quick breakfast of roasted nuts which Georgia gathered from a small wood nearby, then we broke our camp and continued on the journey south. The sun was starting to creep over the eastern horizon as we walked, long red fingers clawing their way out of the earth underneath the clouds. Birds sang in the trees by the path we had found, leading south from the old sept, and the smell of wild garlic filled the air. It was a pretty country, I thought to myself as we walked. I could see why Father had been so determined to have our House return here. There was a calm here that was missing in Essos.

As we walked I began to remember my strange encounter with the old farmer the previous day, and the names he had called me. Looking over to Georgia, I asked her what he meant when he called me a lion, or, that other name he had called me, a L—

'...Lannister,' Georgia finished for me, and nodded her head thoughtfully. 'It's because of your surcoat.'

I looked down at what I was wearing. 'What's wrong with my surcoat?'

Georgia sighed irritably; 'Red and gold are not just the colours of House Elisen, Matt. They are the sigil of the Lannisters as well – the overlords of the Westerlands.'

'Ahhh,' I nodded my head in understanding, 'is their sigil a golden eagle too?'

'No – a golden lion upon a red field.' Georgia thought for a moment. 'You may want to remove your surcoat when we get to the capital. King Robert's queen is a Lannister by birth; Queen Cersei. You may cause some confusion – or offence – if you petition her husband in her own colours.'

'When we get to King's Landing I'll buy something else,' I said, studying myself as we walked. 'This had belonged to my father anyway; it never quite fit m—'

'Shush!' Georgia put a hand out to stop me walking, eyes suddenly wide with fear. I gazed around, not sure what she had...then I heard it. Hooves, multiple sets of hooves, thundering across the sun-baked earth, and gaining on us.

We came off the road, crossing into a neighbouring field, hands on the hilt of our swords. Our eyes clawed the horizon, searching for the riders. Sure enough, we spotted them charging over a hill to the west. Five of them, unarmoured, on good healthy horses. Before Georgia and I could react, they had caught up with us and surrounded us, forcing us back-to-back against each other. It was now that I recognised the cragged features of the old farmer from the orchard.

'Be quick about it, boys,' the old man called in a mocking tone, 'this one is from across the Narrow Sea, and her saddlebag is brimming with gold. No-one's gonna' miss her.'

'Not a farmer at all,' I spat as I drew my longsword, 'just a common bandit.' The old man cackled at me, seemingly unafraid of my sword, his toothless gums black with disease.

Behind me, I heard the satisfying scrape of steel on leather as Georgia drew her own sword. 'Five against two,' she counted, 'it hardly seems fair. Maybe I should fight left-handed.'

A smile flickered across my face just as the old man's features darkened. 'Cut this bitch,' he spat, 'and we'll string this Lannister squire up like a nameday pig,' he cackled again, grey eyes glinting in the sunlight.

I felt my blood boil at the threat; and felt foolish for not realising what he was when I'd met him the day before. I thrust my sword forwards, driving it into the neck of the old man's horse, just above the shoulder. The horse cried out horribly, then fell, crushing the old man's leg beneath its weight. The man gave a cry of agony, and his four comrades lunged forwards at Georgia and I.

They were on horseback, and every law of war stated that a horseman would have an advantage over a swordsman, but they had surrounded us like amateurs, giving their beasts no room to charge or manoeuvre. Being stuck in their saddles, the bandits could hardly swing their swords, while, by contrast, Georgia and I had a full range of movement. The poor fools never stood a chance. We drove them off their horses and dispatched them with non-lethal blows to the head. As Georgia finished off the last of them, and started collecting what token goods she could from their unconscious bodies, I strode over to the old man, still wailing with agony as leg was crushed by his dead horse. I stood over him, my sword glinting in the sunlight.

'Please, ser, have mercy,' the old man coughed when he saw me, 'show me the Mother's mercy and I will be indebted to you, by the Seven, I swear it.' I spat on the floor by the man's head, and cast a look over at Georgia. She had paused when she heard the brigand's cry for mercy, and was now staring at me, her blue eyes growing wide. She saw the look in my eyes and she shook her head slightly, but I ignored her.

I turned my sword in my hands, and held it so that the blade pointed down towards the man's heart. 'There is only one god,' I told him sternly, 'and His name is Death.'


	3. Chapter 3 - King's Landing

This one took a lot longer than I anticipated; not because it was hard to come up with the ideas, but because I simply have been side-tracked by a hundred other demands to my time and attention and this little story of mine fell by the wayside like a lost puppy. Added to that, this chapter swelled like a cancer into something WAY beyond what I had originally had planned, necessitating my changing its title twice and finally cutting it a whole three scenes short of what I originally had planned - this chapter was going to end with the appearance of a beloved and well-known character who was resident in King's Landing at the time, but, I've decided to leave that until half-way through the next chapter.

As to when that next chapter will be written; the Old Gods alone know. I'm working on my own personal project at the moment as well as another fan-fic in an entirely different genre, so my plate is pretty much full to the brim. Still, I hope you guys like this and are keen to see where this is going - any reviews or comments would be greatly appreciated, and my spurn me to write on a little faster than I'm planning to. Enjoy.

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

'**King's Landing'**

(i)

Georgia refused to speak to me after I'd executed the brigand.

I'd wiped my sword clean of blood before stripping the body of any valuables, then turned to see Georgia taking the four remaining horses under her control. She had a calming affect with animals; soothing them with cooing words and winning their trust, being stern with them if they got too bold or aggressive. As I sheathed my sword and turned to face her, I caught the familiar light in her eyes that came over her whenever she spoke to horses – it was a deep, adoring look, as one would expect to see in the eyes of a lover or long-time best friend. For Georgia, it came upon her whenever she was interacting with horses, and I'd grown used to it as a child, knowing enough to stand away and not interrupt her moment of affection. I smiled fondly at her as she brought each horse to heel in turn, stroking their muzzles and whispering lovingly to each in turn.

Then she noticed me watching, and her expression changed. The beautiful light in her eye was extinguished, and her face hardened to a look of sheer loathing. I felt myself whither under her glare, and withdrew, left hand dropping to my sword hilt instinctively. She spun on her heel, and proceeded to pat down the bodies of the four unconscious bandits we'd left alive, pocketing their coins and other small valuables, likely stolen in earlier scores. As I watched her, I felt the blood pounding in my ears and my eyes grow wide. There was no mistaking that look on her face. Funnily enough, I'd never seen it on Georgia before – unlike me, her reason for leaving the Golden Company and coming out west was not one borne of the ghost of vengeance or the spectre of violence. She could fight, and I had seen her fight, but had never seen the flash of venomous hatred in her eyes. Now that I was seeing it directed at me, I had no idea how to respond.

I took a faltering step towards her, opening my mouth to speak, but then realised my throat was dry. She seemed to hear me approach, and spun around to shoot me another look of daggers, and I promptly closed my mouth, swallowing hard. I didn't understand. As she tied two of the horses' bridles to the saddles of the other two, my brain was racing, slowly churning the bile in my stomach and boiling my blood. I had fought with girls before; friends, enemies, kin, lovers – lovers being the worst of the batch. I'd rather have faced a thousand Dothraki screamers on foot and unarmed then have one more argument with an incensed lover. I shuddered. Seven Hells had neither the fury nor the intolerable stubborn arrogance of a woman scorned. And yet Georgia was none of these things, and all of them; we were friends as close as kin who argued and squabbled as earnestly as enemies, and who spent more time together than most lovers did. A lifetime spent growing up together had made us a cohesive unit as inseparable as the Golden Company, or the Seven Kingdoms themselves.

Not waiting for any sort of interrogative from me, she took the reins of both lead horses – a jet black destrier and a paint courser – and started walking them on down the path a foot or so, removing the four horses from the small feast for crows we'd left in the wake of the attack. She stopped short suddenly, and turned her head to the side, not quite looking at me, but clearly waiting on me. Still silent, I traced her steps numbly, taking the reins of the courser she handed me without saying a word and hopping up onto the back of the destrier. I followed her with my eyes as she began expertly trotting on down the road we had left minutes before, a lump rising in my throat. I forced it back down, putting a foot into a stirrup and heaving myself into the saddle. I shortened my reins, then carried on after Georgia, remaining a few paces back, but close enough that if she decided at last to speak to me I could converse with her easily enough.

The sun burned scorching hot to our left, and I suddenly became aware that I was sweating profusely, though whether from the heat or nerves I could not tell. My two horses trotted along obediently, not in the slightest bit shaken at their rapid and colourful change in ownership. As the hours began to slip away in silence, I began thinking of Brian, nestled in the forest to the north, and how easy it would be to cut loose the horse behind me and gallop back to him, taking flight across the Narrow Sea back to Essos. I shook my head. Running away from a fight I didn't even understand wouldn't solve anything. And we had come to this country for a reason; that reason was not likely to change now because of...because of something I couldn't even comprehend.

We halted as the sun came to the mid-point in the sky, resting the horses, eating, relieving ourselves – and all in silence. Once or twice I opened my mouth to speak but I was shot down immediately by a glare from Georgia. I began to feel annoyed; if she'd just tell me what was wrong, I found myself thinking, we could talk it out, or scream, or fight each other, and work things out. I didn't understand what this silence was good for. We broke camp, and switched around the tack on the horses, giving the lead two a break and tying them to the saddles we now placed on the backs of the other two we'd stolen, riding them onwards down the path. It was two days to King's Landing, I thought bitterly. Two days of this silence would drive me mad.

We rode on, past hamlets and farms and other road-weary travellers, eyeing our gear and horses suspiciously but never saying a word. Gradually, the fire from the sun bled into the blue sky, turning it first purple, and then overcoming it entirely and blazing the sky in an orangey-red flame. The base of the sun began to dip below the western horizon, and I knew, as Georgia did, that we'd have to make camp for the night soon.

As the sun continued its descent, we spotted a farm a few yards up the road. Without uttering a syllable, Georgia broke into a trot and, cursing under my breath, I kicked my horse on and followed her, at this stage grimly upset at how she was behaving. Was I in the wrong too? I'd started to ask myself; should I just speak up and confront her? But every time I gathered the courage to, the image of the look she'd given me that morning – that poisonous, _hateful_ glare – burned itself back into my mind's eye, and my resolve spluttered and died. So I followed her in silence, my horse's overly energetic trot bouncing me around in the saddle and adding to my level of frustration and discontent.

The farm was small; a miniscule farmhouse looking out onto a poorly managed and overgrowing field, with a small, seemingly empty barn at the far end. As we approached two young girls stood up from where they'd been playing with dolls in the tall grass and ran into the house. A tall, haggard old farmer appeared in the doorway seconds later, arms folded as one hand stroked the wiry beard on his chin, gazing at us with eyes blackened by age.

'If you've come to sell us horses, we're not buying,' he said authoritatively as we both reined in and came to a halt in front of him, 'this farm hasn't seen a bountiful harvest in four moons.' He turned his gaze upon me and, in a tone that sent a sliver of ice through my heart, added, 'The cold winds are rising.'

I shook off his piercing gaze and sat as tall as I could in my saddle. 'I wish there was something to be done for poor harvests, good man, but we—'

'_I'll_ pay you a gold dragon if you offer us up your barn for the night,' Georgia cut me off in a quick and decisive tone. I was about to round on her in protest, but, the fact she had said _us_ and not _me_ placated me. At least I wouldn't sleep out in the cold. 'We're weary travellers on our way to King's Landing, we need hay for our horses and to make our bedding. We shall be gone before the sun rises and the cock crows, and sup tonight from our own stores of food. We shall be of no burden upon your hospitality.'

'You're not from these parts,' the aged farmer gave Georgia a suspicious look. 'Hospitality cannot be bought with gold, or diamonds, or dragons' eggs – it must be freely given in this part of the world.'

For a moment Georgia looked baffled, but then her features softened again. 'If you gave us up your barn for one night, we would be eternally grateful – you and your girls would be in our prayers.' I flared my nostrils at this, but said nothing. I was exhausted both physically and emotionally from the day's journey, and wanted nothing more than to put my head down and close my eyes for a few sweet hours.

The farmer cocked his head to one side and squinted, visibly weighing up Georgia's offer of goodwill and a prayer. I scoffed to myself at the superstition of the Andal religion. There was only one God; and He did not suffer the welfare of old fools. Finally, the man seemed to make up his mind. 'Fine,' he answered in a loud voice, 'you may stable your horses in the barn and yourselves sleep there for the night. But I expect you both to be gone by the time I awaken i'th'morrow.'

'Of course, ser,' Georgia bowed her head with deference.

The farmer scoffed at that. 'Many women have called me many things, lass, but never _ser_.' Then his eyes flicked back to me, and narrowed. 'And you, Lannister. If you lay a finger on any of my daughters, by the Seven, I will cut your cock off in your sleep and burn it before your eyes.'

My eyes grew wide at the insinuation, and I instinctively turned my head to crack a shocked smile at Georgia, but she was eyeballing me with the same untrusting squint as the farmer. I felt my heart miss a beat. That isn't fair, I heard my mind screaming at her. How long had she known me; when had she ever known me to take advantage of a girl – especially ones so young? I swallowed back another lump in my throat. What had happened to her be so spiteful towards me?

I muttered my grudging submission to the farmer, and then dismounted, walking my horses across the overgrown field towards the barn, Georgia following in due course. I was truly morose as I hitched both my horses' reins to an iron bar at the far end of the barn wall, then sat down in the far corner on some mouldy hay, feeling sorry for myself. I didn't understand anything that had happened today; the ambush, Georgia's anger towards me, the old farmer's harsh and baseless accusations...for the first time since leaving the Golden Company all those years ago, I felt truly alone, and not even the barn walls or the hay could stave off the bitter chill such a feeling brought down on me.

Georgia entered moments later with both her own horses, flanked by the farmer's two daughters from earlier, plus one slightly older, a woman grown at the age of fifteen, by my reckoning. They brought with them small platters of bread and salt, and Georgia dug in gratefully, though I waved off the older one as she offered me a piece. Her eyes grew wide with offence, and she looked hesitantly to her younger sisters; I suddenly cursed myself. It was the Westerosi tradition to offer guests bread and salt when they came under your roof – it symbolised their coming under the protection of your hospitality, and was considered extremely important in the Seven Kingdoms, amongst smallfolk and noble alike. I apologised, and took a small morsel of bread, dipped it in the salt, and wolfed it down, thanking the girl hollowly. She curtsied and bowed her head in a manner that struck me as being too perfect for a farmer's daughter, and then she and her sisters disappeared, skipping across the fields back towards their home just before Georgia pulled the barn doors over.

She knelt down across from her having untacked her horses and hitched them next to mine, then knelt down to build a small fire to warm ourselves. I think that's the single act that broke me; ignoring me all day, refusing to speak to me, sharing the farmer's brutal, dark mind – I could handle that. Worse had been done to me by scarier people in the past. But the fact that she purposefully sat down next to me and worked on a fire, not for her, but for _both_ of us, was the cruellest act of all. It meant that despite her anger, despite whatever it was that I'd done, she was still caring for us, together, as a team. Feeling my throat prickle with vengeful tears, I lowered my head as the fire blazed into life, so that she couldn't see the red in my eyes.

'What did I do?' I croaked pathetically, and immediately hated myself for doing so. 'Can't you at least tell me that?' When she didn't reply straight away, I looked up at her, to see her eyes fixated in the flames. They danced and licked at the dry summer's air, shimmering prettily in her pupils. She didn't say a word; she didn't look up at me.

I shut my eyes, and now, at last, felt the bitter, hot tears of defeat streaming down my cheeks. I shifted where I sat, removing my sword belt, and placed it down next to the fire. I lay down, my back to the wall, turned away from Georgia, and silently hoped to fall asleep before I could give myself away.

To my horror and shame, I barely managed to choke back a sudden opportunistic sob, and realised I'd been exposed. I heard the rustle of hay behind me as Georgia shifted her weight to look at me. I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my head, and shut my eyes tighter still, as if hoping she'd just go away if I wished it hard enough.

'We don't kill people.'

The sound of her voice, quiet and weak now in the silence of the barn, caused me to open my eyes, still wet with tears, to my disgrace. I turned back a little, so that I was staring up at the corner where the barn's wall met the roofing, enough to let her know I was listening.

'By all the gods, old and new, Matt – we _don't_ kill people,' her voice wavered this time, and I could tell she was fighting back tears herself. It was then that it dawned on me.

'The bandit...' I said stupidly, each syllable slow and blundering like a child reading a word for the first time.

'He was defenceless, broken, and beaten – we don't kill people, Matt. Not _ever_.' I turned all the way around now to face her. She was gazing right at me now, eyes burning and swimming with tears as the memory of me driving my sword into the brigand's heart no doubt played itself across her mind like a bad dream. It hadn't even occurred to me that such a small act could have upset her so much.

I picked myself up so that I was sitting again, and mustered all my breath for my defence. 'He attacked us,' I protested in a tinny voice, 'no doubt he had attacked others, and meant to attack others still. He was a brigand and a cur; I did the world a favour by ridding myself of him.'

'You have no right. None at all to decide that on your own. That's why we have _laws_.'

'And he lived outside the law!' I snapped back. 'What would you have had me do? Carry him to King's Landing and drag him before the king and queen?'

'_Leave_ him, for all I care, let someone else deal with him. I thought you were a better person than to kill in cold blood, I really did. Maybe I was wrong.' I felt the ground slip away underneath me. To lose Georgia's trust and respect, after so many years, felt like losing a sister or a wife or a mother. I drew a shuddering breath, and shook my head in defiance.

'My Father made me swear an oath,' I protested bitterly, 'on his dying soul, and the souls of all my forebears, to come to this country. I swore an oath, Georgia, in the dark of that tent with the waters of the Gulf of Grief lapping in our ears, I swore an oath upon the skull of Bittersteel to the Many-Faced God—'

'To Seven Hells with your father!' Georgia shouted at me, freezing me mid-sentence and rooting me to the spot in shock. 'And your oath! And your God!' She wiped tears from her eyes and continued in a voice that sounded more pleading than angry. 'Your father brainwashed you with this God of Death crap, from the moment you were born to the moment he died. He drove you out of the Company, away from your mother, your sister, your friends...from _me_. You've carried his stupid oath around in your heart as if it brings you closer to him, closer than you were in life, but, Matt, you're not. You carry around his god as if it gives you the right to pick and choose your morality, to pick and choose who gets to live and die, and you can feel righteous and holy and pure – but it's a _lie_, Matt. You kill in the name of some god you have never met and who you will never meet, and you think it makes you a good person. But it _doesn't_.'

I opened my mouth, and then closed it. Opened it, closed it. Finally I swallowed hard and started to respond; 'My Father...'

'_Matt_!' She was exasperated now, '_You. Are. Not. Your. Father._' She exhaled shakily, visibly trembling now in the dim light of the fire. 'You're a better man than he ever was. And you are better because you _didn't_ hurt people, you _didn't_ kill people – you're _good_, Matt. Your father is _dead_. He is _never_ coming back. His ghost can't haunt you.'

I stared at her in silence broken only by the sound of the horses stamping and snorting nervously at her raised voice. As the horses calmed down and quiet descended on the barn once again, she seemed to realise what she had said, and shrunk back into herself, bright eyes suddenly wide with fear. She opened her mouth to speak again, but I shook my head to silence her, then turned back around, lay down, and went to sleep.

(ii)

I awoke an hour before dawn.

The fire was down to embers by the time I turned around, its last ashes faintly flickering in slow, drawn out breaths. Georgia was curled up where she'd been sitting, her peaceful face illuminated by the orange light of the flames. I stared at her for a few minutes, running last night's conversation through my mind as I did so, heart in my throat as I saw her red-rimmed eyes and heard the pleading note in her voice. A shiver ran through me, and I left her where she was, crossing the hay-strewn floor of the barn to the door and stepping out into the cool morning air.

A pale blue light lingered on the edge of the eastern horizon, hesitant to pull the sun up over the Narrow Sea. It gave the cloudy sky a haunting glow made more eerie by the whisper of the winds and the bitter cry of a raven as it flew overheard. I followed it with my eyes; it was a big, black bird, flying north with something clutched in its talons. I frowned; why the Westerosi sent birds to do a messenger's job was beyond my comprehension. Who knew how many of their secret communiqués were intercepted by spying eyes and unfriendly hearts? I pulled my surcoat tighter around my shoulders, shivering in the breeze. There was a darkness to that morning that wasn't just for want of a sunrise. 'Dark wings, dark words,' my mother had always said – the northbound raven was an unsettling omen.

I heard her come up behind me, but didn't react. The sound of her footsteps died about a meter behind me, and I remained quiet, not taking my eyes off the glow in the east. There was a howl of morning wind followed by a sharp intake of breath, and I realised she probably hadn't expected it to be this cold, and was not properly dressed for the hour. There was a sound from the farmhouse across the unkempt field, and I realised one of the farmer's family was awake – our time here was at an end.

'Matt...' Georgia's voice finally broke the still.

'I had a dream last night.' I stopped her before she could continue. I paused for a moment, unable to hear her at all now – as if she was holding her breath in anticipation of what I would say. 'I dreamt I was visited by Bittersteel, only, he had no head – instead he carried his golden skull cradled in one arm, dressed in a cloak of red with the black dragon sewn onto it. Behind him stood all the sons of Daemon Blackfyre, and my father, and my father's father, and yours, and all the men, women and children exiled across the Narrow Sea for their part in the rebellion against Daeron II. Above them all hovered the God of Death, a skull riddled with worms and patches of dead skin. And I tried to take a step towards them, but I was suddenly doused in flame and had to retreat for fear of burning to death. And that's when I saw her,' I swallowed hard, 'a girl with silver hair and purple eyes, to whom all the great men of the East were bowing. They came from all the lands of men; from the Summer Isles, from Asshai, from Volantis, Braavos, Qarth, and all the Ghiscari city-states of Slaver's Bay. Exiled lords of Westeros stood by her side, clad in armour of black and gold, and women and children alike called out to her with raised arms – they called her "Mother." And when I turned away to face my father and my father's Company, they were gone; all that was left was ash. In despair I turned to find them again, but all I could see now was a storm in the East, and from it, a red dragon rising.' I turned around and faced Georgia for the first time, unable to make out the expression on her face in the gloom. 'You were right, Georgia, about everything – I've clung to the dying dreams of my father long enough. I've used his religion and his beliefs as a crutch in everything that I do. We've come here for something so much greater than the Blackfyre claim, or our own petty disputes over lands and titles. It's time I stepped out of his shadow and made my own way, as you did so many years ago.'

Georgia had lowered her head, staring down at the ground like a berated child. Unsure of what to say, I crossed over to her and put my arms around her. After a few seconds, she hugged back, and I felt like I could smile again. 'We had better ride against the dawn,' I murmured, 'or that farmer will have my head on a stick.'

'Your _head_ would be the least of your worries,' Georgia said slyly, and it was like a blind man seeing sunlight for the first time to see her grin at me again. Frowning at her, I followed her back into the barn, where we broke camp and saddled up, cantering out of the farm and back to the open road.

The going was easier on the second day of our land journey, and hugely more enjoyable. Once out of site of the farm we'd slowed our horses down to a brisk trot, side-by-side, chatting excitedly like kids about what we'd find in the capital. We'd heard stories, of course, all through our childhood, but neither of us could picture in our minds' eyes the rising great citadel of the Red Keep or the maze of alleyways and tunnels of Flea Bottom. The sun sailed overhead as we journeyed ever further south, colouring in the landscape around us in brilliant showers of green grass, yellow sand and pink and white flowers that clung to the sides of the road like something out of a child's drawing. Talk turned eventually to the dragons, alone as they were in the forest of Crackclaw Point, and we had a moment of worry about whether they would stay safe and hidden while we were away from them. They had a part to play in this yet, we both knew, and it would do our cause no good for them to be revealed now. We had no choice but to press on and hope for the best; no good would come of turning back now, halfway to our destination. As the sun reached the midway point in the sky, as yesterday, we slipped off our horses and set up a small fire by the side of the road, sitting down to a humble feast of dried meat and salted bread.

Silence descended between us as we scoffed down our tidy meal. Other travellers walked past us, some on horseback, some afoot, holding malnourished children by the hands who watched us as they passed with wide wet eyes. We offered out half-loaves of bread to the particularly thin looking families who hobbled past; some accepted them graciously and blessed us in the name of the Mother, others shot us suspicious looks and hurried their children on away from our little campfire.

After we ate we sat back and basked in the sun for a little while, stretching out the knots in our muscles after so many hours' riding. I lay down in the grass, sun in my face, chewing down the last few morsels of meat. As the minutes passed I became aware of Georgia's eyes on me, and I sat up to look at her with an inquiring eyebrow.

'What do you think your dream meant?' she asked earnestly.

I just shrugged. 'Nothing. It was a dream. There are no dragons in the East. It was just my mind telling me that you were right; there is more going on here than my father's whims. And I had to wake up and see that.'

Georgia scrunched up her face, unconvinced. I frowned at her momentarily – I didn't put my faith in the greenseers who crowded the lofts of narrow Tyroshi streets or sat in the corners of Myrenese taverns that she did, it felt too much like superstition – but then it wasn't without a story of its own. When we reconnected after three years, after I'd first left the Golden Company, she'd been with a greenseer, a blond boy from Dorne. Despite how their relationship had ended she'd always kept her faith in what the boy had told her about green dreams. Part of me harboured a suspicion that she'd never gotten over him, but I didn't push the subject whenever it came up – we stayed out of each other's business in that regard.

'Will you promise me something though, Matt?' I didn't hear her at first, lost as I was in reverie, so it took a repetition to make me look up.

'Sorry, what?'

'Will you promise me something?'

'Sure, what is it?'

Georgia hesitated before speaking. 'No more killing. Not when it can be helped.'

'Okay. No more killing.'

'You promise?'

'I promise.'

(iii)

We reached King's Landing the following evening.

The sun was sinking in the west, casting an orange glow over the cloudless sky, a beautifully brilliant contrast to the green grass that bordered the King's Road into the city. The throngs of travellers we'd shared the road with for the past couple of days had thinned out the closer we got to the great walls of the capital. We stopped to finish off our provisions on a gentle slope that overlooked the approach to one of the city's legendary seven gates. I'd tried recounting them all as we neared King's Landing, but had failed after the first three – the Old Gate, the Iron Gate, and the River Gate. Georgia had named the King's Gate and the Gate of the Gods, but we'd been stumped as to the names of the final two. As we hopped off our horses and broke the last loaves of bread between us, looking out over the northern gate of the city, we kicked ourselves for not guessing its name.

'You see that there on the top of Rhaenys' Hill?' Georgia pointed over the walls of the city where, from our vantage point, the crest of the great hill was clearly visible in the twilight.

'Is that what I think it is?' I spluttered through a mouthful of bread. Georgia nodded her head slowly, the solemnity of the crushing hugeness of the monument clearly affecting her. It was unmistakable. The Dragonpit, a giant stone dome erected atop Rhaenys' Hill to house the dragons of House Targaryen had lost none of its ominous and epic grandeur, though now the dome was collapsed in on itself and, so the stories went, the doors sealed up for over a century. It stood defiant atop the hill named for the sister-wife of Aegon the Conqueror, a tragic epitaph to the greatest beasts to have ever lived, now long since cast into legend. _Or so the Andals thought_.

I scoffed down the last of our small meal, then stood up and stretched. The orange rays of the sun bounced off the side of Rhaenys' Hill like something out of a magnificent dream, casting its light over the streets below. The sounds of the city could be heard clearly from our vantage; the milling anarchy of five hundred thousand men, women, children, horses, dogs, cats, rats, all with wagons, with squalling infants, with iron-soled shoes, with walking canes, all contributing to an ethereal cacophony of sound that permeated into the rising night. The very air seemed alive with energy and sound. I could sense the electric excitement in Georgia next to me; even the horses seemed to stamp their hooves and rock from side to side, eager to get moving again. When we'd packed up our belongings and saddled up, we started on down the gentle slope towards the Dragon Gate.

As we passed under the impeccably crafted stonework of the gate's arch I felt as if both of us had stepped back in time, and were both 10 years old again, ogling and gawking at the wide world around us. The dragons etched into the stone around the portcullis were magnificent, each one unique, each one a character of its own, a testament to the craftsmanship of the masons who'd carved their likeness 300 years ago, when Aegon and his dragons melted the Seven Kingdoms in one. For those men to stand with us now, I mused, and see their work undimmed in the glory of the greatest city of Westeros after three centuries of warfare, fire and blood...I shuddered. Men feared time; but time feared man's hand upon stone.

The city was quietening down now as shops closed and parents scooped up naked children from the alleyways and carried them home, kicking and screaming in brave protest. Wide-eyes beggars gazed at us from dingy side streets as we rode past, not approaching a pair of travellers so heavily armed. Silent Sisters floated by in their elegant gowns, heads bowed, the seven-pointed star of the Faith fluttering in the dying winds behind them. A few urchins started to swarm around us, coming close to pet the horses whenever foot traffic forced us to come to a stop. Georgia would smile at them, and ask them what their names were – I was uneasy, and my left hand tapped the pommel of my sword impatiently while we waited to kick our horses on again. We eventually made our way down the Street of Sisters – Georgia provided the landmarks, as she knew the map of the city better than I – towards Visenya's Hill. 'We'll find an inn on The Hook to bed down for the night,' she's explained to me as we entered the city. 'It's close enough to the Red Keep so we won't have to travel far in the morning.' I'd nodded in quiet acquiescence and racked my brain to remember the street names of the giant capitol. The Hook was a main road that swung from Muddy Way, leading south towards the River Gate, to Aegon's High Hill, upon which sat the Red Keep itself.

At last, as the red sun turned to black ash in the sky, and faded for good, we reached a small tavern on the corner of The Hook closest to the foot of Aegon's Hill. We stopped outside and I hopped off my horse, approaching the door – but stopping short when I realised Georgia wasn't following.

'I'll take two of the horses to the market and sell them,' she said when I raised an interrogating eyebrow. She threw me a small bag, which clinked with the telltale signature of small coins when I caught it. 'Go get us a couple of rooms and stable room for our horses.'

'Market's closed,' I replied, weighing up the bag in my hand, 'you think anyone will wanna' buy a couple of horses at this hour?'

'They're good animals,' She gave a fond glance back to the two horses whose bridles were tied to the saddles of our own, 'I'm sure there's someone who could scoop out the coin to pay for a couple of good horses like these.'

'I'll take your word for it,' I gave her a mock bow, 'see you inside.' And I left her to handle the four horses.

The inside of the tavern was akin to any other tavern in any city of Essos. It was dingy, dirty, and overcrowded now as night fell, as those burghers without places to stay in the city crowded every nook and cranny they could with their families, jostling to get as close to the roaring fireplace as they could. They brought with them dogs, pigs, sheep, a donkey and tucked away in one corner, cradled in the hands of a wide-eyed blonde girl, a peacock. I narrowed my eyes and twisted my features in thought when I saw it; why did a peacock seem significant to me? I racked my brains but, unable to remember anything, I banished the thought. Kids ran around, playing with each other, while adults roared at them to sit down and behave. The air was close with the acrid fumes from the fire, the smell of ale and hot bread and, of course, the stench of about thirty people packed wall to wall in a small space.

I waded through the mass of bodies to get to the counter. As I went, eyes dead set straight ahead, looking to get the barkeep's attention, I failed to notice a small red-headed child dart out in front of me, chasing a cat that had sprung lose – she collided with my knee and knocked me over, in turn sending me sprawling into the back of a tall, thin man chatting to a girl leaning against the wall. I cursed, and apologised to him before making sure the child was okay.

'Shell!' A middle-aged woman appeared by the child's side, who had, despite the confusion, managed to scoop her kitty up and was now cradling it lovingly in her arms. 'Come back over here this instant!' she took the child, Shell, I presumed, by the arm and looked at my apologetically. 'I do apologise ser...' she muttered, but I flashed a quick smiled and shook my head. The little red-headed Shell reminded me of someone, from years back, but...right now I couldn't put a name to a face.

'Are you okay, my ser?' I looked up, startled, into the wide, doe eyes of a young brunette – the girl who the tall man had been talking to before I'd unceremoniously knocked him over.

My reply caught in my throat. She was beautiful. Her eyes were as wide as gold dragons, set in place over a perfect button nose, and when she noticed by lack of a response she flashed a cheeky grin, tilting her head to one side and sticking her tongue through the gap between her teeth bashfully. She wore a single thin gown which clung to her frame hungrily, barely concealing the statuesquely-perfect curves beneath. I felt my mouth go dry.

'I'm f-fine,' I stammered my response, cursing any gods that would listen for this indignity. 'Thank you,' I cracked a smile that I hope didn't seem too forced, and turned to face the barkeep.

'Can I help you, ser?' he had a smug, amused look about him, though whether from witnessing my collision with Little Shell or my ham-handed reaction to the brown haired girl behind me, I didn't want to venture a guess.

'I need...' I could feel the girl's eyes on the back of my head, and they burned into me, causing me to realise just how stuffy and hot the tavern was. I fanned the front of my tunic uncomfortable. '...I need a couple of rooms for the night and stables for two horses,' I said, collecting myself. A shadow crossed the innkeeper's face.

'Look around, ser. We're packed full for the night. We've got one room available, but...'

'Yeah, we'll take it,' I said quickly, wanting the exchange to be over as soon as possible. I could still feel the girl's eyes boring into me. The barman raised an eyebrow, but he didn't protest as I pushed a silver stag into his hand and thanked him earnestly.

'Okay ser – up the stairs, last door on your right. Here you go,' and he handed me over a heavy iron key. 'Breakfast is at the first cock crow. See you in the morning.'

I nodded and spun towards the winding staircase at the far end of the room; a mob of weary and hungry families stood between me and it. I sighed, and prepared to wade my way through the throng.

I felt a hand on my arm. 'You don't have to go up alone, ser.' It was the brown haired girl. I swallowed and turned to face her. She flashed another cheeky grin – sticking her tongue back out cutely as she did so – and seemed to blush in the smoky light of the tavern. 'The cold winds are rising; I pity the man who has to curl up in a big, empty bed alone, no-one 'twixt the sheets to warm him up.' And it was then that the penny dropped.

I stared at her wide eyes, far too bright and innocent, I thought, for a girl of her profession. She held her gaze, biting her bottom lip, turning from side to side ever so slightly, hands in front of her, a sheepish look over her. She was irresistible, I thought, far too chaste-looking to fetch up in some mangy tavern like this. She put her hand back on my arm and gave a gentle squeeze. The look of yearning in her eyes was almost too much to bear. I banished my misgivings, and rattled in the purse to see what I had left. A stag and a dragon. _Georgia's_ stag and dragon. I hesitated. She was off trying to sell the horses – for one thing, she could be gone for another hour, maybe more. And she'd recoup the money she'd given me to spend on two rooms here by selling both animals. I made a decision. I nodded slowly, almost not believing I was doing this.

I felt myself get lightheaded as she took me by the arm and walked with me across the room, navigating the mass of bodies that milled about on the floor. Children stopped in their tracks to gaze at her beauty as we passed by; men shot me scornful looks; and women rolled their eyes and shook their heads disapprovingly. I paid no heed to any of them. My heart was pounding in my ears and my throat was dry. She continued to hold my hand as we ascended the staircase; her skin was soft and white, almost too delicate for a working girl's. Who was this living image of the Maiden, I found myself wondering? How come a girl _so_ innocent and beautiful was turning tricks in an old tavern on The Hook?

Once again she cut off my train of critical thought as soon as we reached the upstairs landing by swinging around to face me, taking up my other hand and holding both out in front of me. She took slow, deliberate steps backwards, to where my room was, a cheeky girlish grin plastered across her face. When we reached the door I fumbled desperately for the iron key, my hands shaking, managing at last to jam it into the lock. She gave a low, shuddering moan under her breath as I did so, and I flicked my eyes to look at her, to which she just gave me her cheeky smile again as if to say 'Whups!' I shuddered. I could barely contain myself.

I stepped in and turned around as she shut the door behind her. The room was dark, only a sliver of moonlight dribbling in from a small window in one corner. She stepped into it as she approached me, and the light seemed to flow into her gown, extenuating the outline of her figure beneath it. I swallowed.

'Don't be so nervous, ser,' she cooed in a gentle, coaxing voice, 'this isn't your first time, is it...?'

I shook my head, searching desperately for the words to say. 'It's been a long while,' I answered truthfully, but not quite able to recall right now any other girl I'd known in the past. She smiled seductively at that.

'Well, we wouldn't want you to forget, now, would we...?' and she took my hand, and placed it over the gentle swell of one breast. I drew a shaky breath, and she smiled to see me so affected.

She interlaced her fingers behind my neck and leaned in close. She smelt of freshly picked flowers and incense. Then she kissed me; the soft touch of her lips against mine was so delicate I almost didn't feel it, but then she kissed again, more earnestly, more longingly, and her tongue slid into my mouth and met mine, and I closed my eyes, an unbidden moan escaping from my throat.

The sound seemed to excite her, and she removed her hands from around my neck, and pulled away from me gently. When I opened my eyes, she had taken down her gown, and was standing naked in the moonlight, gazing at me. My eyes went wide, drinking in the sight of her pale skin, from the perfect curve of her hips, to the silver crescent cast by the moonlight that hugged her navel, to the small mounds of her breasts. Her tongue emerged slowly from behind her white teeth and slowly wetted her upper lip, and then, quick as a flash, she'd pushed me back, onto the bed, and was on top of me.

She bent over and kissed me again, hard, this time, and there was a furious passion behind it that I hadn't felt in years. She unlaced the front of my tunic, and I felt her hands brushing against my stomach. I shivered with ecstasy and, recognising the effect it had on me, she kept one hand there tauntingly while her other dropped lower. I shut my eyes, and lay my head back on the pillow, as I felt her fingers close around –

'What in Seven 'Ells is goin' on 'ere!' Georgia's voice in the doorway sobered me up quickly. I slid out from underneath the girl and sat upright, and saw her standing at the far end of the room, face livid with rage. But her eyes weren't on me; they were focused entirely on the whore.

'Miss, I—'

'What in 'Ell d'you think you're doing with my 'usband?' Georgia shouted at her, and my eyes went wide. _Her WHAT_?

'I didn't know, miss, honest, I...'

'Too right you didn't! I'd suggest you get back down to the other poor fools you've roped into giving you their 'ard-earned coins tonight and leave me to whip the 'oly 'Ell outa' me 'usband!' I sat rooted to the bed, gaping stupidly at Georgia, mind a complete blank.

'Y-yes, miss, r-right away...' the girl shot me one last look, and then threw her gown back over her shoulders and darted out the door, keeping a safe distance from Georgia's striking range. Georgia slammed the door after her so hard the entire room shook.

Then she turned around to face me. And burst into hysterics of laughter.

I gaped at her, stupefied, unable to fathom a response. She bent double over, clutching her sides as helpless tears streamed down her cheeks, crying with laughter. As slow, stupid realisation dawned on me, and I realised what was going on, a sudden surge of bile rose in the pit of my stomach. My hand lashed out at the nearest object – in this case, an empty bucket by the bed – and I flung it at Georgia's head. She ducked, and the wooden container clattered against the heavy door, which seemed only to send her into further fits of laughter. I spewed venom at her, blisteringly furious at her screwing me over for no good reason than to amuse herself, then stormed out on her, down the stairs, back out onto the Hook and into the night.

(iv)

Morning found me, exhausted from a lack of sleep and blood boiling over Georgia. I'd found my way from the Hook into Flea Bottom, where amidst the cesspools of feces and filthy beggars tugging at my leggings for alms I found breakfast in the form of what the locals called a 'Bowl o'Brown.' I didn't ask what was in it; all I knew was that it was lukewarm and contained meat, and that would do me until noon. It was only as I'd finished my pathetic meal and stepped back out into the hot summer's sun did I realise the bells; they'd been tolling non-stop now for near to an hour. I questioned a one-eyed and dour local on the matter, but he just shrugged, spat, and muttered something about "Motherless foreigners." Resigning myself to ignorance, I retraced my angry steps of the previous night to try and relocate that little tavern on the Hook – and Georgia.

I found Georgia more or less where I'd left her; playing a game of cyvasse at a table in the tavern over a mug of watered-down ale and a heel of bread. Her opponent was a tired-looking knight in shabby armour, his shield leaning against the table bearing a sigil I did not recognise – a sun with a spear stuck through it. I stood in the doorway, the anger in me abating slightly as I took in Georgia's serious expression, eyeing up the knight's dragon suspiciously while pulling her spearmen back away from her opponent's light horse and rabble. I smiled in spite of myself. When the knight took his next turn, he saw Georgia's retreat as hesitance, or weakness, and charged his light horse into the gap created by her spearmen's absence – not noticing, on either flank, Georgia's heavy horse and elephant waiting to attack from the sides. We'd seen the Golden Company perform a similar manoeuvre, in the battlefield, as children, and had been in awe of the tactical genius of the move. If your two flanks are stronger than your centre, the centre will inevitably be the first to fall back – and pull the enemy centre into the midst of your entire army. There was no escaping the manoeuvre. By the time the knight had realised what had happened, it was too late, and Georgia was far beyond winning. With an exasperated huff, the knight symbolically knocked over his king piece. Georgia had won.

He stood up and bowed respectfully, and they shook hands before Georgia clapped him on the back and offered to buy him a drink – he declined, saying that his ship was to depart for Dorne within the hour, and he really must be away. _Dorne!_ I thought to myself. _That's what his sigil was; the sun and spear of House Martell_. The little bit of Westerosi history I'd memorised before setting out on this questionable adventure came back to me; Dorne was the only kingdom that the Targaryens had never conquered; instead, they had willingly acceded to the control of the Iron Throne, in exchange for certain liberties. Claiming the title of "Prince" for their Lord Paramount was one such benefit the Dornish enjoyed.

As the Dornishman brushed past me with a respectful nod, Georgia's eyes, which had been following his departure, now fell on me, and she shot me a cheeky smile – unwittingly mimicking the brunette girl's cute way of sticking her tongue out between her teeth as she did so. I shivered with the cold sweat of anger as I crossed over to her. Before waiting for me to speak, she threw me a small purse which clinked with the sound of coins within. 'From the sale of your horse,' she explained when I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. 'I told you they were good horses; we've enough to make do for the time being. Enough, certainly, to get some new armour. You need a new surcoat of you're to present yourself in front of the king and queen.' I nodded absently. 'I'm thinking, red with black trimming?'

I cocked my head. 'Why?'

'The colours of House Blackfyre. I thought it would make your father proud.' Though her facial expression, and voice, gave nothing away, the sentiment was enough to make me suspicious. Was this her attempt at appearing contrite?

'The Blackfyre name still invokes hatred in the capital; there are some men yet living who fought Maelys the Monstrous and the Band of Nine in the War of the Ninepenny Kings; parading in front of noblemen and women wearing their colours would hardly win us the king's favour.'

Georgia rolled her eyes impatiently. 'You'll be wearing a surcoat of red and black; it's not like the Targaryen dragon will be stitched on the back or anything. Don't overthink it; to anyone in the capital you'll just be a knight in red and black – we'll know, if no-one else.'

I shrugged my shoulders; I supposed her interruption last night wasn't about to come up in conversation, then. It irritated me, but, I said nothing, figuring we had a long day ahead of us, and fighting with her right this second would only impede matters. I vowed to take my revenge out on her at a later date...as my Father had always said; revenge was a dish best served cold.

Georgia downed her ale, then crossed the floor, putting her hand on my shoulder as she led me back outside. Once out in the streets she stretched and yawned, and we got our bearings. 'Right,' Georgia said matter-of-factly, though I was content to let her take charge – a night of sleepless rage hadn't done my mental faculties much good. 'I'll take care of rearming and getting you your surcoat – that Dornish knight gave me the name of the best smithy in town, a', she paused, 'Tobho Mott, atop the Street of Steel.' I nodded, waiting patiently for her to give me my instructions. 'You're to gain access to the Red Keep; King Robert should be holding court for most of the day, I'll try my utmost to catch up with you before you're in line to see him. If not, well, I suppose you know what to do...' she eyed my surcoat, '...and what not to wear.'

'Fine,' I ground my teeth, 'just don't take too long. You're buying armour, it's not the Higher Mysteries.' Georgia stuck out her tongue at me, and I would have made a lewd remark only...memories of the girl last night flooded back unbidden, and I had to shut my mouth lest I explode at her.

For the second time since arriving in the capital yesterday, we parted ways, both with pockets full of gold, and went about our business – Georgia, to equip us and to offer me new colours to brandish at court, and me, towards the Red Keep itself, to seek an audience with King Robert the Usurper and his queen, Cersei Lannister.

Somewhere in the distance, towards the Sept of Baelor, the bells were still ringing.


End file.
